


The Pleasure of Strangers

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [196]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Consensual Infidelity, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Possessive Bucky Barnes, Professional Rogues, Scheming, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 01:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16800946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: They leave Bath with a full purse in their pocket and three broken hearts in their wake.





	The Pleasure of Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Rogues (outlaws, highwaymen, mercenaries, pirates, gangsters, hitmen, etc; black sheep and royal bastards; Han Solo characters; tricksters). Prompt from this [generator](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/prompts).

They leave Bath with a full purse in their pocket and three broken hearts in their wake. Not bad for a month’s work, eh?

“That poor girl,” Bucky tuts at they put heels to horses. “She was so sure you were the one.”

Steve laughs, the sound caught on the wind. “What about yours? Taking their money was one thing, but their closely-held virtue, too? My, my, Mr. Barnes, you are cruel.”

“Yes,” Bucky says, “but only in the nicest of ways.”

Neither of them comes from money or started with any station in life, but they’ve learned to make the best of what God gave them: handsome faces and clever minds and the capacity for a kind of succulent charm. They make a fine pair, as skilled at cards and gentlemanly banter as they are at disarming ladies--and all in the same evening, natch.

Each has their own way about them. Steve is more courtly in manner, the sort of man to whom the young, rich, and nubile can see rescuing them from a crumbling tower or an angry dragon and sweeping them with tenderness to their feet. Mothers love him; fathers, too, and when he proposes, it’s always in moonlight, his words smooth but shy as he cups his beloved’s hands within his.

Bucky, though, is a sinner, and his eyes say it, even when his face is carefully shaped into formal dress. The pretty flies that come for his particular honey must know they’re walking into a trap, must know he cannot really give them the life that he promises as he mouths at their breasts and slips his fingers deep into sweet places they should not be. Some are swayed by the shame he plays at, after, the taste of passion still on his lips. “I was carried away,” he might say, tears in his eyes, his knees pressed to the floor. “Oh, my dear flower, forgive me.” Others find in him mirrors of their own eagerness, of desires they only half understand but have been trained all their lives to keep hidden, locked away even within their own minds. And yet somehow, no matter their proclivities, evenings with each tend to all end the same: with Bucky’s lips where his fingers have been, his long, studied tongue lapping at silky wet, his pretty flies’ hands clutched happy and helpless in his dark hair.

So it had been in Bath, and between two sisters, no less, each of whom thought him their own, special secret. Ah well. The jewels of each, snug now in his pocket, shine on just the same.

There is a certain smugness about them as they ride, pounding out of the city after dark, and perhaps one can understand why: the moon is high, their coats pleasantly weighted, and opportunity lies just ahead. Well, opportunity crossed with the prospect of respite.

“I still think we should have written,” Steve says at noontime, when they’re stretched out in a fat crop of trees. “Are you sure Tony won’t mind?”

“He owes us a favor, remember? And old Stark’s as good as his word.”

“He’s not old.”

Bucky snorts and leans back on his elbows, arches like a cat in the sun. “He’s 40 odd if he’s a day.”

“Hmph. I think he’s aged rather well. Like a port, maybe. Or a fine wine.”

“Either way, something you want to drink, is that it?”

Steve rolls on his stomach, suddenly close, and grins into Bucky’s face. “If the man offered, I’d not be inclined to say no. I bet he’d be fun. I’ve never had a lord of the manor. Have you?”

“Not that I can remember,” Bucky says, breezy, but there’s a buzz in his gut that makes him uneasy. “But I’d much prefer if you didn’t fuck our friends. We have so few these days. I’d prefer to keep Stark at arm’s length.”

Steve’s eyes--robin’s eggs flecked with gold--grow rich and deep. “Tsk. I’d let you watch.” He spreads a broad, hot hand on Bucky’s chest. “Nay, my friend, I’d demand it.”

“Steve--”

A coil, a crouch, and Steve is on top of him, pinning him to the soft blanket of earth, grinding his hips in a way that makes Bucky see stars. “Come on,” Steve says, the words pure challenge. “You can’t tell me you don’t like that idea.”

“I don’t,” Bucky says, but his hand is on Steve’s thigh, the other wound in Steve’s hair, and his cock has a mind of its own. “You’re not his to have.”

“Aren’t I?” A kiss, impertinent and impossibly slow. “Whose am I then?”

“Do you need to be reminded?”

They’re both shivering now, both stiff, both in need of an affirmation it’s far easier to perform than to speak.

“Yes,” Steve murmurs, fervent, his teeth catching the edge of Bucky’s plump lip. “Show me.”

It’s often like this, after, when they’ve spent too long in other people’s company, devoting their energy to the pleasure of strangers and leaving their own unattended, un-sated, un-whole. The distance, the necessary interjection of pale-scented prey makes Steve especially antsy, and even if they find each other in the night during one of their working sojourns, a quick, silent fuck, a few stolen kisses, these are never enough.

“Don’t,” Steve pants when Bucky has two slick fingers in, when the spring air is lit with the oil of jasmine. “No more, Buck. I need you.”

They’re both still in their boots and their shirts are in the way, their skin separated by what to Bucky feels like miles and miles of fabric. But Steve’s on his hands and knees before him, his body swallowing Bucky, greedy, and God help him, it’s been far too long.

“All right,” he says, bending over Steve’s back, kissing the flush line of his neck. “It’s all right, my dearest. I’m yours.”

Steve cries out when he’s breached, a sound that softens into a low, aching moan, and soon all is lost but the slap of skin upon skin, the heady joy of being reunited.

“Spill in me,” Steve says, his body a vise, his words a silk feather, his fist busy between his hips. “Come on. Spill in me, Buck.”

Something in Bucky contorts, a mad, wild thing. “Why?” he spits. “So when you ask Tony to take you tonight, he’ll see that you’ve already been had?”

A gasp of laughter. “Would you like that?”

“ _No_ ,” Bucky says, desperate, “God, no,” but he’s picturing it--how can he not?--imagining Tony’s face when he peels back Steve’s breeches to reveal that lovely ass, the clutch of him wide and still wet with Bucky’s come.

He can imagine Stark’s eyes in the firelight, can just see the spread of Steve’s arms at the edge of a big, soft bed, a drop of spunk sliding down to kiss the inside of Steve’s thigh.

“Oh God,” Steve moans now, his face turned into the grass, the nails of his free hand digging scores in the grass. “Hard, darling, yes, hard, harder--oh! Yes, _yes_. Just like that.”

“Yes,” Bucky can hear himself saying, still lost in the imagined, “he’s yours for tonight, Stark. But tomorrow and every day after, Steve’s mine.”

The last words he says aloud, he must, for Steve mirrors them with a sharp cry-- “Yours, Bucky, yours”--and then shouts, a noise, a need that’s been building for weeks finally breaking. His body seizes on a sigh, the whole of him going tight and for an instant perfectly, beautifully still, and in that moment, Bucky allows himself to remember how much he adores Steve, how much he needs him, how much playing at loving others tears at his heart, deep inside.

He comes with a roar, like an ocean’s waves on the beach, and scrambles for Steve’s hands, squeezes them, crushes them in the dirt.

"Love you," he murmurs when the world rights itself again, when he can find the slim shell of Steve's ear with his teeth. "I love you far too much for my own good. I hope you know that."

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently it's 19th century week here at MM?


End file.
